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In the winter,
Footprints in the snow are always lost.
The snowstorm fills the fissures with cold, barren flakes.

But in the summer,
As the foliage gorges itself on the sweet water and the yielding sunlight that
Waltzes through the fertile canopy and brushes our skin,
We grow apart, and then again grow closer,
Caught in between the gentle dawn of spring and the drowsy dusk of autumn
Then turning our faces from the vivid, heated sky, away from the future,
And into transient, loving arms.